A scrap of paper dropped out, and she caught it, not part of the script but something torn from a magazine. Not torn, she realized as she paused to stare at it, but cut with scissors. A man’s face, vaguely familiar from some ad campaign dating back thirty or forty years. Strange. She looked around uneasily, but her concern over being late won out. She tossed the scrap into the wastebasket with the discarded lipstick and hurried downstairs.
Jason Jason, I assume?
